


je ferai de nous deux mes plus beaux souvenirs

by apolliades



Category: Inception (2010), Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunken Confessions, Ficlet, Holding Hands, M/M, Pining, Short One Shot, Sort Of, parting is such sweet sorrow, that i shall say goodnight till it be morrow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 16:53:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13594350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: They’re holding one another so tight it’s crushing. It hurts. He wants more of it.





	je ferai de nous deux mes plus beaux souvenirs

“I wish you hadn’t come back,” Tommy murmurs, once they’re in bed with the lights out, and him too close to sleep to keep his eyes open anyway. Which is a good thing, in a way, because Eames imagines it would hurt more if he were looking at him. At least this way he can turn his attention to the way Tommy grips his hand, his wrist, with a fierce determination which contradicts both his weariness and his words. 

“Why?” Eames probably wouldn’t venture the question if Tommy’s eyes were open. 

A long moment passes before he answers. Eames can tell he isn’t asleep by the way his fingers are pressing into his wrist with almost enough force to bruise, but he does start to wonder whether he’s forgotten he spoke. He hadn’t actually thought he was _that_ drunk, would’ve assumed he was only tired, but that’d been a tone of voice Eames has never heard on him sober. Soft and not over-laden with feeling, just — honest, unguarded.  

“Because now I’ll miss you more when you go again,” Tommy says, just like that; no blame, no admonishment in it, just truth. It’s that truth that breaks Eames’ heart more than anything else ever could.  

“Don’t say that,” he says, having to put more effort in than he’d like to keep his voice from cracking. Thank god Tommy’s eyes are closed still, and it’s too dark to make out much of his expression. Eames runs the hand which isn’t in Tommy’s vice grip over his hair to the nape of his neck, one of his favourite places on him, and presses their foreheads together.  

“Sorry,” Tommy mumbles, tilting his face slightly so their noses touch. Eames can taste the whisky on his breath.

“Don’t say that either,” he says, praying Tommy’s too far gone to notice the trace of desperation in his voice. This time Tommy doesn’t answer, but he squeezes his hand a little, and Eames quite abruptly feels a jolt of guilt for forcing Tommy to console _him_ , when it’s Tommy who’ll be left behind when he flies out tomorrow, Tommy who’s just told him he’ll miss him.  

“You know I’ll come back,” he says. Tommy makes a soft sound of something like vague, mostly unconvinced acquiescence. Eames kisses him once, mouth closed. Tommy doesn’t stir, but he’s still holding on to his hand just as tight. 

“Do you mind?” Eames asks, in a whisper.

“What?”

“That.” Eames puts a finger to Tommy’s lip. When he still doesn’t answer Eames kisses him again, firmer, on the mouth, three times successively when each one seems too brief. On the third Tommy kisses him back, pressing into it when Eames goes to move away. His skin is damp where Eames’ nose bumps against his cheek. 

“I’m sorry, Tommy,” Eames tells him, covering his hands with his own. They’re holding one another so tight it’s crushing. It hurts. He wants more of it.

“Don’t say that,” Tommy murmurs. His voice is near silent, but still rough. Eames clenches his jaw tight. 

“You know I love you,” he tells him. “You know I’ll come back.”  

There’s no way for Tommy to know, though, for certain. No proof other than Eames’ choked-up promises. No proof other than his hands and his mouth of the first and no proof at all, not for either of them, of the latter; only Eames’ intention. Intention counts for little in Tommy’s world when outcome so often renders it worthless.  

Eames says it again anyway. “I love you, Tom,” with his mouth fervent against Tommy’s whisky-warmed brow. Tommy doesn’t answer, but Eames doesn’t mind, not when he can feel how much it’s taking for him just to keep his breathing steady. “I’ll come back. I’ll always come back to you.” 

In the morning he leaves with no guarantee that he’ll return, but knowing he’ll try, knowing he’ll fight for it, even if it kills him. 

**Author's Note:**

> title from dis, quand reviendras-tu? by barbara. inspired by real events! kill me.


End file.
